A Room of My Own


With a door that shuts.


That would be awesome.

Sunshine and lollipops.

Speaking of sunshine, there may finally be a break in the rain.

I am not minding the rain at the moment, especially at night, the smeared lights on the pavements are so rich in pigment I feel that I am stopping every other moment to photograph the reflections.

I am not mindful of the rain as it is also warmer.

Not quite warm yet, I am still wearing a sweatshirt and a jean jacket and I have half-gloves tucked in my pocket as well as a scarf around my neck.

It is not freezing, however, it is not numbing to walk, it is not I cannot fathom wearing tights, unless I am wearing tights under a pair of pants, weather.

By Sunday in the 70s!

Sunshine is promised and the weather in the 70s.

I am thinking an outing to Bois de Bologne.

I have not been yet and it seems the perfect place to go on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

It is also a short hop on the Metro from the 7th where I will be heading to a morning commitment.  Free after 1 pm I shall wend my way towards the woods.

Until then I have plenty to keep me busy.

I will be meeting up with a ladybug tomorrow afternoon at Bert’s after seeing my fellows on Avenue George V.  And as I am on the same Metro line, Line 9, I am going to hop on at Alma-Marceau and take the train to La Muette and go to the Monet museum in the 16th that has the largest collection of Monet paintings in the world.

Musee Marmottan-Monet.

It has over 100 works of Monet plus Renoir, Sisley, Manet, Degas, Pissarro, Berthe Morisot, and Gauguin.

Sounds like a good time to me.

Friday I have a similar day in the early afternoon then an outing to the suburbs to do a spot of baby sitting.

Saturday I see Corinne and Christina and loads of folks at 65 Quai D’Orsay.

Sunday, the woods.

Monday, more babysitting.

Tuesday, not the Louvre, but maybe climb the bell towers at Notre Dame.

Either that or finally go out to Clingancourt.

The huge flea market.

I will not go on a Sunday.

It is estimated that approximately 120,000 people converge upon the market on Sunday.  Plus with the weather being warmer and sunny, it will most likely be a mob scene.

Thanks, but no thanks.

I’ll have my last day with the mademoiselle next Wednesday and after wards I was thinking I would celebrate by heading to the Louvre and doing a long afternoon there.

Thursday and Friday are open to whatever way the wind blows me.

Saturday I fly to Rome.


I will stay with the lovely Michelle, who happens to be a tour guide, and I will accompany her on her Sunday tour of the city.  I have no other real plans.  I am just going to show up and see what there is to be seen.

I’ll return on the 23rd, leaving me one week in Paris before I fly home.


I’ll be going to Graceland.

And not the one in Tennessee.

It sort of all fell together, as I felt like I was falling apart (what is that, if I’m falling down the hill, I am in God’s will?  Felt like falling for sure), without much trouble, a few shed tears, and a quiet resolution to do what comes next, what happens easily without manipulation, without geographic cures.

The nanny position I was offered is on 42nd in Oakland.

Graceland is on 52nd.

Ten block bike ride.

I can do that.

I won’t mind bicycling to work again.  I have not bike commuted, really, since I left Oakland. I have relied on the Metro, which is a damn fine system, best in the world as far as my experiences go, but the constant vigilance from pick pockets and the crowded rush hour travels, I will not miss.

Although there will need to be a certain kind of vigilance riding around Oakland.

I am already prepared for that.

I am also prepared for a little bit of culture shock.

I have been here just long enough that it will be unnerving, I am certain, to return.

But return I am.

Three weeks from today I will fly into San Francisco International Air Port at 12:10 pm on Wednesday May 1st, 2013.

Three weeks.

I am nervous and excited, a bit scared, and to tell the god awful truth, relieved.

I realized this as I was tossing and turning last night, trying to fall asleep without constantly checking my e-mail and actively turning it over to the Universe, putting it out there and saying what ever happens, I am ok, I will be ok, it is ok, now go to sleep.

This morning feels so long ago, I have also been up since 7a.m. and I was not able to fall asleep until 2 a.m. despite having tucked myself in at 11p.m. last night.

Thoughts that went through my head, random and disjointed and weird–eating tomatoes with sea salt, plucked straight of the vine in the back yard at Graceland.  Fred, the feral, bumping my hands as I put out the food for the neighborhood cats.  The fig tree.


Oh, the sunshine.

I will be over the moon, to mix my metaphors, to have windows that let in direct light.

And ceilings that I cannot touch.

I can stretch my arms above my head and touch the ceiling here, without standing on my tip toes.  It is a bit claustrophobic in here.

Wearing flowers in my hair, way random thoughts, but you don’t see it so much here, and you do in Oakland, and buying big ass hoops from the flea market outside the Ashby Bart station, in Berkeley, but just a quick hop down the road.

Wearing color.

Lots of it.

Being in the Burning Man community again.

I miss my peeps.

Paris has been amazing and I won’t ever say that it hasn’t, but my fucking God, it has been hard.  And not just hard in the getting lost or not being completely fluent in the language, but hard as in hard to earn a living and crazy with people and having to constantly be on guard and being a stranger in a strange land.

That kind of hard.

Worth the doing.

Worth the having.

And if it works out again to be here in the future, worth the coming back to.

But I will let you in on something, I am ready to be settled down for a bit.  I have done so much moving in the last few years, apartment to apartment to couch surfing, to in-laws, to house sitting, literally having all my worldly possessions out with me last year at Burning Man, living here on a futon folded up into a nook in a corner of the living room/dining room, I am ready to have my own space.

Just a room.

A room with windows, a wood floor, high ceilings.

A table to sit at.

A chair to write from.

Some where to put down some roots for a half a minute.

Maybe have a plant–a geranium, its spicy pepper scent filling my room.

I don’t need much.

I have proved that again and again, but I would like to stop for a moment.

I am cool with the nanny’ing and what ever else comes down the pipeline.

I just want a table to keep writing at and a patch of sunlight to do it in.

I am scared to start over.

But it is not a failure, it is just a new point of departure and I would not have the same appreciation for it, the room, the Oakland, the nanny, if I had not have had this.

The Paris.

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